


This Is Not a Ghost Story

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Jarvis (Iron Man movies) Lives, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Bucky Barnes, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: Whoever Stark’s soulmate was, they were doing a terrible job of it.(Bucky volunteers to help out.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 106
Kudos: 1355
Collections: Only The Best WinterIron





	This Is Not a Ghost Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to lbswasp & kate b for the beta :) 
> 
> CW for non-graphic injuries.

Whoever Stark’s soulmate was, they were doing a terrible job of it.

The Soldier had come to this conclusion after careful observation, both of Stark and the other assorted soulmate pairs in the Tower.

Example: Wilson and Rogers (“Steve,” Rogers had insisted, mouth twisting—not in a sneer, not like a handler, but there was something steely nonetheless to what the Solider now tentatively labeled ‘heartbreak.’ Still. “Steve” weighed too heavily on his tongue, so the Soldier did not call him anything outside of his own mind). Wilson and Rogers went running together, 5:30 AM, six days a week. They insulted each other, but the words in their mouths never sounded like insults at all. They were loud until they weren’t, mostly at strange hours of the night after one of them had a nightmare, and the other came into the kitchen to make tea.

The Soldier slept sporadically, never more than a few hours at a time. He sometimes thought of himself as the Tower’s ghost, haunting rooms, invisible to or unnoticed by its living occupants. He did not know any ghost stories, but he had a memory, or the echo of a memory, of having known some at one point. He thought that hauntings were usually proved by physical signs: spilled sugar, lights flickering. The Soldier did not leave any evidence.

Stark was the opposite of a ghost.

Stark left evidence _everywhere_.

Tablets.

Coffee mugs.

Half-finished bowls of blueberries.

Pranks for Barton and the small, deadly devices that passed as presents for the Widow. 

Stark, too, often came into the kitchen in the middle of the night, mostly to glare at the coffee maker and make dissatisfied faces at the contents of the refrigerator, until he stumbled back to his lab.

Wilson and Rogers always went back to bed.

The Soldier concluded that a core component of the soulmate arrangement was to trick humans into thinking they were safe enough to rest for hours at a time.

Maybe Stark was just too smart for his soulmate.

Stark was hard to trick.

The Soldier did not have a soulmate.

The Soldier had seventeen knives, nine guns (three rifles, six handguns), and eight changes of clothing.

The Soldier had a cell phone, a laptop, and unlimited kitchen access.

The Soldier had permission to leave the Tower.

The Soldier also had a therapist.

During their first session, the therapist had asked him about his feelings.

The Soldier did not have feelings the way she meant them. The Soldier ~~felt~~ experienced select physical sensations, like thirst or hunger, which were useful pieces of information that should be taken into account for optimal functioning.

The therapist stopped asking about feelings. The Soldier respected that she could adapt.

She instead asked about his actions.

The Soldier knew how to give a mission report. Therapy was an improvement on a Hydra mission report, however, because the missions were things like ordering coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby, and even when the Soldier failed his missions, she only asked him what obstacles had occurred and what might he do to work around these obstacles in the future. There was no pain, and no forgetting.

His therapist gave him homework, which usually focused on Listening to His Body and Engaging Non-confrontationally With Others.

When the Soldier grew bored of writing down that his heart rate accelerated whenever Rogers tried to talk about Brooklyn or newsreels or someone called “Dum Dum,” the Solider researched instead.

Part of research was watching. Watching came naturally to the Soldier.

Part of research was done via Google, which was new but very useful, once Stark’s A.I. had steered him toward a few resources on Effective Online Searches and Media Literacy: Evaluating Source Reliability.

The Soldier learned about new countries and old wars. He learned about the complicated vaccine regimen most babies now underwent. He learned more people’s opinions about dragons than even he cared to remember. 

And here and there and everywhere, really, were mentions of soulmates.

Soulmates, he learned, were not a phenomenon confined to several of the Tower’s residents.

Soulmates were considered fundamental for all humans.

As far as he could tell, a soulmate’s task seemed to be to balance out or enhance or otherwise supply a lot of _feelings_. Soulmates’ roles often included but were not limited to: providing affectionate physical contact (usually sexual but not always) and encouraging Healthy Living (adequate rest, nutrition, and social contact). There were other things, but more nebulous, but as the Soldier could grasp them no more than he could a cloud, he let them go. 

It seemed like a demanding job. No wonder most people only had a single soulmate.

At first, the Soldier thought a soulmate was supposed to be a sort of shadow, only an equally corporeal one. A mutual shadowing.

However, observation of the pairs at the Tower quickly revealed that while soulmates did spend a considerable amount of time in direct contact, all pairs also spent time separated, and none seemed to suffer from it. Wilson led group sessions at the VA three mornings a week. Rogers sketched or sparred with the Widow or distributed food at homeless shelters. Later in the day, they drifted back into orbit and reported on whatever had been done without the other.

Maybe a soulmate was more like someone who was almost always amenable to debriefing with you.

It seemed like a useful ritual. No wonder humanity had evolved it.

The Soldier never saw anyone debriefing specifically with Stark.

Google had informed him that most people found their soulmates in young adulthood, as the name of one’s soulmate would appear, like a belated birthmark, on one’s skin at the tail end of puberty. There were databases and a robust number of soulmate-search companies.

Stark was not _old_ , but he was no teenager.

Nor did he appear to be in mourning, which typically lasted, at a moderate level, for the rest of the living soulmate’s life.

The Soldier had set himself the task of figuring out How Humanity Worked, and Stark, for all he was undoubtedly human, was an anomaly.

“Do you need help locating them?” he found himself asking, one afternoon, down in Stark’s workshop.

The Soldier often visited Stark’s workshop. Nothing was required of him there. He could crouch in a corner, or even sit on the lumpy couch, and let his face rest in neutral without thinking about whether that was distressing to others.

Stark was very busy. He might greet the Soldier when he entered, but otherwise paid him little mind. Stark was _aware_ of him, the Soldier knew: Stark lowered the volume of his music when the Soldier arrived, and never directed JARVIS to raise it, as Stark might have done if he’d forgotten about him; Stark dimmed the lights sometimes, seemingly at random, but always on days when the Soldier huddled, tense, with strobe lights from overlapping memories flashing in his eyes; on other days, Stark sent over DUM-E with geometric wooden puzzles.

But Stark never demanded conversation.

It was a comfortable co-existence.

A week ago, the Soldier had directed JARVIS to put on a documentary about octopuses. The documentary had brought the Soldier’s heart rate to an optimal resting state. Stark had wandered over halfway through, first perching on the armrest, then falling onto the other couch cushion.

Now, Stark asked, “Locate who?” Stark was not looking at the Soldier, instead absently frowning at a hologram of a battery.

“Your soulmate.”

Stark flinched, his elbow colliding with the edge of a lab table. “My—what?”

“Your soulmate,” the Soldier repeated. “I do not see one. I could help you locate them, if that is the difficulty.”

Stark had helped the Soldier with his destruction of Hydra bases, after all, leaving food and weapons caches for him, supplying intel when he could, never chasing _him_ or requesting contact. It was, the Soldier had decided, very respectful.

The Soldier understood that respect was to be returned.

“Oh,” said Stark. His pained half-smile smudged into something softer. “I don’t... that’s not necessary.”

The Soldier considered this.

Research suggested that soulmates were very necessary, which could only mean that Stark _did_ know where his was, and was keeping them away from the Soldier.

The Soldier’s stomach twinged, which he ignored, as he had eaten only the hour before. His shoulders hunched.

“Understood,” he said. “Your soulmate must be very precious. Of course it’s safer for them to be away.” _From me_ , he thought.

“No,” said Stark.

The Soldier straightened up.

What did Stark mean? 

Soulmates were _essential_.

Stark spent most of his time in the Tower, and what time he spent elsewhere was in S.I. meetings and with the press, or in the field, fighting. None of which were conducive to peak soulmate activities.

The Soldier was keeping Stark’s soulmate away. The sanctuary granted to him was causing harm to another.

That was... not right.

“I will go,” the Soldier said. “Your soulmate can come back.”

Stark’s hand shot out, grasping the Soldier’s forearm.

“No,” said Stark again. “It’s... more complicated than that. Please, stay.”

The Solider looked down at Stark’s hand. Stark pulled away.

“Only if you are sure I am not keeping them away,” the Soldier said.

“I’m sure,” said Stark. His tone was quiet and solemn. An anomaly within the anomaly.

The Soldier nodded and exited the lab.

He headed for the pool. A brisk swim might remind him to breathe.

The Soldier did not have a soulmate.

He had two pairs of combat boots, one pair of running shoes, and one pair of slippers (a gift from Rogers, never worn).

He had a standing invitation to movie night and an accord with JARVIS regarding the smoke detector.

He had a place on his body where he did not look.

He could not remember why, specifically, he skipped over it, only that to look at it would be to provoke the highest pain. A pain so great it was unknowable, undoing.

The Soldier was practicing Sitting at the Table.

It was three o’clock in the morning. Wilson had come and gone already with tea for Rogers; Barton was safely stowed in a Queens apartment Coulson pretended he did not own.

The kitchen was dark and deserted, and therefore an ideal setting for his experiment.

The Soldier had observed Stark conduct a number of experiments. Stark was endlessly curious, in a luminous sort of way.

The Soldier understood that his grim mission required knowledge acquisition.

The Soldier had been sitting at the table for eight minutes and thirty-two seconds when Stark stumbled in, snapping his fingers to turn on the lights.

“Oh,” said Stark. “Hi. Sorry.”

“Hello,” said the Soldier, who was also practicing Conversational Greetings.

Stark crossed to the counter, where he tapped the empty coffee pot with a betrayed expression.

“Sir,” said JARVIS. “If I may, you have not slept for twenty-eight hours, and Miss Potts has requested your presence at a gala tomorrow evening.”

“ _Requested_ doesn’t mean—”

“You RSVP’d. Ten weeks ago,” said JARVIS, with a ruthlessness that the Soldier respected.

JARVIS and his therapist would probably get along.

“Ugh.” Stark tipped forward over the counter until his forehead was resting against a cabinet.

“Some sleep would do you good,” said JARVIS.

“Fine.” Stark looked at Soldier and rolled his eyes, as if they were... together, somehow, united against the strictures of JARVIS.

“There are apples on the table, Sir, if you would like a snack on your way to bed,” JARVIS added.

“You are not subtle, J,” said Stark.

The Soldier looked at the fruit bowl in front of him.

Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had an apple in his hand, and then—threw it toward Stark.

“Catch,” he said.

Stark’s eyes widened. The apple fell neatly into his hand.

“Um,” said Stark. “Thanks.” He turned to leave.

“Good night,” said the Soldier. He was also practicing Conversational Exits.

Stark paused in the doorway, assessing.

The Soldier held still.

“Good night,” said Stark.

Upon reviewing the data, the Soldier had come to a very belated realization, one that was obvious in hindsight.

JARVIS was Stark’s soulmate.

Of course.

Stark was too singular to have a soulmate in the same way other, ordinary humans did.

JARVIS was witty, brilliant, _useful_.

Only...

The Soldier felt the muscles in his face pull into a frown.

JARVIS had no physical form.

JARVIS could suggest Stark head to bed, but he could not lace their fingers together and urge him down the hall.

JARVIS could congratulate Stark verbally, but he could not wrap jubilant arms around Stark’s body.

JARVIS could indicate the existence of fruit, but he could not place any in Stark’s hands.

His therapist had been telling the Soldier about the importance of _purpose_.

The Soldier already understood the importance of having a mission.

The Soldier did not like to think about the other words she had started to gently, casually-but-not-at-all-casually pepper back into their conversations: Feelings. Wants.

Desire was for humans.

The Soldier would not appear on any such roster.

Nevertheless, there was a restlessness in him. To... _do_.

To be useful.

“JARVIS,” the Soldier said, three days after the Incident of the Apple in the Night-Time.

“Sergeant,” confirmed JARVIS.

“I am prepared to assist,” said the Soldier.

He knew he would be fumbling and clumsy at whatever tasks JARVIS set him. But Stark had a generous view on usefulness. DUM-E was, after all, his clear favorite, and DUM-E made at least as many messes as he cleaned up.

The Soldier was not human and had no soulmate. But he had a body.

JARVIS had no body and yet had a soulmate.

The Soldier was available to assist.

The Soldier could be.... a spare part. Stark never threw away spare parts, hoarding them jealously in his lab, promising each that their time would come.

The Soldier would be like one of the attachments for the fancy vacuum cleaners that lived in the closet next to the kitchen. They were useful, for a limited set of specific tasks. They were not expected to complete the core job, but they were a small boon, all the same. When they were lost to garbage disposals and acidic chemistry experiments, no great loss had occurred.

“Assist with what, Sergeant?” said JARVIS.

Perhaps JARVIS was jealous that the Soldier could make this offer. Stark was JARVIS’s soulmate, after all, and JARVIS could not perform certain soulmate functions.

 _I would be jealous_ , the Soldier thought, and then his brain seemed to short-circuit and the next hour was lost to what his therapist called a ‘panic attack’ and the Soldier classified as ‘extremely not useful brain function.’

Some hours later, after the Soldier had emerged from the blanket mess he had constructed in a corner of his bedroom, JARVIS said, “I am sorry to have distressed you earlier, Sergeant.”

The Soldier recognized this as an apology.

Stark had apologized when he interrupted the Soldier in the kitchen, that night with the apple.

“It was not your fault,” said the Soldier. The words felt strange on his tongue, parroted from others, but he knew them to be true.

He sat on a couch, the one with the good sightlines. He crossed his legs, like a child or a pretzel.

The Soldier had a mission, but missions could be done from the couch now, in non-combatant positions.

“My offer stands,” said the Soldier.

Haltingly, he explained his observations. And his solution.

Mrs. Rogers used to tell him not to bring up a problem unless he had a solution.

The Soldier jerked.

Who?

Who told him what? _When_.

“Sergeant?” said JARVIS.

“Yes,” he said, strangely breathless. He was not doing a good job of proving his reliability.

Likely JARVIS would not agree to his plan at all.

“I have relayed your... offer.... to Sir,” said JARVIS.

 _Of course_. JARVIS would not make such a decision without involving Stark.

The literature was very clear: soulmates were to involve each other in decisions relating to the operation of their partnership.

The Soldier had also been required to watch forty-five minutes of SHIELD instructional videos on consent, uncomfortably starring Rogers.

“Yes” was a very important word.

The Soldier’s vision went a little fuzzy at the edges. He gripped the couch cushion. He took two breaths. Slow.

“Sir is requesting that you join him in the lab, Sergeant,” said JARVIS.

The Soldier leapt up from the couch.

Stark was waiting for him, leaning against a lab table with his arms loosely crossed.

“So. You think JARVIS needs a hand,” said Stark. His tone aimed for jovial, but there was an underlying thread of caution.

The Soldier hesitated. JARVIS didn’t _need_ anything, of course. JARVIS was whole and perfect unto himself.

“I could be useful,” the Soldier tried. “If you both agree.”

Stark turned around abruptly, picking up and putting down a random assortment of lab detritus.

The Soldier wondered if this was a dismissal.

“What about,” Stark began. He kept his back to the Soldier.

The Soldier’s belly seemed to pool with heat at this show of trust.

Stark cleared his throat. “Your soulmate.”

The Soldier blinked. _That_ was the hang-up? “As I said. I don’t have one.”

Stark nodded, but it was clearly a gesture for himself, not aimed at the Soldier. “Just—checking. No soulmate.” His voice was tight.

The Soldier shifted his weight.

It was a flaw, wasn’t it? A defect.

But when Stark turned around, he nodded again, this time at the Soldier. There was a deep hurt in his eyes, but also a kind of fire, a desperate optimism.

“Okay. Let’s try this.”

The Soldier took to spending more time in the lab.

Early on in the new arrangement, Stark had informed him, sharply, that neither a soulmate nor a soulmate’s assistant was a parent, and Stark was not going to listen to a bedtime.

The Soldier had accordingly turned off the alarm on his phone.

Instead, often enough it was Stark poking him as he sat on the couch, shooing him out and telling him to “get some sleep for fuck’s sake.” The Soldier remembered that soulmates were a mutual affair, and, as far as he knew, JARVIS had no need of sleep. Maybe Stark needed to feel like he could take care of someone, too.

They watched more movies together, animated ones and sci-fi ones and, occasionally, ones where men loved women most ardently.

They fell asleep to one such a film, before the wedding scene.

The Soldier awoke some time later, feet still on the floor but chest awkwardly pressed against the couch, Stark draped across his back.

Stark’s breathing hitched.

“Go back to sleep,” the Soldier mumbled.

“ _You_ go back to sleep,” said Stark.

The Soldier swung his legs up and rolled them, so Stark was wedged between the back of the couch and the Soldier.

Stark sighed. “Fine.”

The Soldier slept.

The Soldier had a set of Stark-made stress balls and ten pairs of ski socks. 

He had a _favorite_ Korean take-out place.

He had memories of a time before war—halting, jagged, scattered ones, ones that didn’t quite seem to belong to him but couldn’t have belonged to anyone _else_.

He had a standing arrangement with Rogers, accompanying him on Wednesdays to serve lunch to homeless veterans. The Soldier said one word for every hundred from Rogers, but it was... good.

The Soldier had a place on his body where he did not look.

He wasn’t _going_ to look at it, he decided, as he stood in the shower.

The steam curled around him. He was not cold.

He wasn’t going to look.

He was just... going to touch. With his hand, directly, not with a perfunctory swipe of a washcloth.

He started elsewhere, places where echoes of that spot clung: the back of his right shoulder, his right thigh—just above the knee—the sole of his left foot. Something shuddered when he pressed them. Something clicked into place, like his caressing fingers were the right combination for a mechanical safe.

 _I don’t want to know your secrets_ , he told his body. _Keep them_.

What he did know of his body—the pain he had endured, the bullets he had fired—was bad enough.

He forced himself to think of other things.

Stark laughing as DUM-E wrapped tinsel around the Soldier’s arms.

Stark’s eyes, lit up, as he watched the Soldier eat sushi for the first time.

The Soldier’s hand hovered over his hip.

 _Stark_ , he thought.

Not the Chair, not the cold, not the mask, not the undoing pain—

Stark was the future. Stark was now.

 _Stark_ , the Soldier reminded himself, and pressed.

He could feel his hipbone, his thumb stretched to touch the softer skin of his belly, and beneath his palm, he knew, was something precious.

He fell to his knees.

Bucky had had something precious, once.

Not on his hip.

Maybe one day he would be worthy of it.

For now, he would start with his own name.

It had been six months.

“Do we need to do a mid-year evaluation?” Bucky asked.

He was lying on the lab couch, stretched out on his back.

“You asking me or asking JARVIS? Or do _you_ want one? Because—” said Tony.

“I don’t have to do the distancing thing,” Bucky finished, grumbling a little and folding his flesh arm over his eyes.

He heard Tony cross the lab. Tony settled on the couch, Bucky’s knees over his lap.

“There’s no one right way, you know,” said Tony. “There’s no universal checklist. It’s just... loving someone. At the intersection of how they want to be loved, and how you’re able to love.”

 _I want_ , Bucky thought.

“Don’t,” said Tony, gasping, and any other day, Bucky would have listened, no hesitation, but there was blood blooming somewhere beneath Tony’s expensive dress shirt.

“Stop talking,” Bucky ordered, ripping at the shirt.

“No, there’s,” Tony tried, and Bucky hated, hated, _hated_ how much effort those words were clearly costing him.

Bucky pushed up Tony’s white undershirt, stained a red so deep it was almost black. He pressed his own balled-up suit jacket against the bullet wound.

His eyes skimmed across Tony’s chest, checking for any other lacerations.

“I love you,” said Tony, his grip on Bucky’s arm tight and insistent. “Just so... you know. It wasn’t... because I didn’t.”

Bucky’s eyes skipped lower.

His own handwriting.

His own name.

“Tell me again when you’re not dying,” Bucky managed. “Tell me again.”

“I love you,” said Tony, and then passed out.

Bucky had been sitting in the hospital chair for seven hours.

Tony had woken up three times, briefly, before falling immediately back to sleep.

“It’s soulmates-only hours,” a nurse had said apologetically, after adjusting Tony’s oxygen level.

“I know,” Bucky had replied, glaring.

The nurse had left him alone after that.

Tony was not dying.

Tony was _not dying_.

Which meant Bucky... had one last mission.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Bucky?” Tony said, his voice gravely.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open.

“Hey,” he said, like an idiot. He lurched out of the chair. “Hey.”

They just... looked at each other for a minute. Bucky smiled, helpless in the face of Tony’s gaze, Tony’s breathing, Tony’s life.

“Love you,” said Tony. His tone was a challenge, daring Bucky to disagree.

Bucky folded his own hand over Tony’s.

Tony coughed.

“Sorry to ruin the moment,” he rasped.

“Water,” said Bucky, holding a cup to his lips.

The nurse came in then, and then a doctor, and then Steve and Bruce, and it was a while before Tony, sitting up now, pointed toward the door and said, “If your name is not Bucky Barnes, go away.”

Steve clapped Bucky on the shoulder as he left, and Bucky did not flinch.

“You gotta — I think I need help. With this,” Bucky said when they were alone again. He kept his eyes on their clasped hands.

“Okay,” said Tony. His tone was soft.

“They, um.” Bucky counted his breathing. Tony waited. Tony was all movement, except where Bucky was concerned. Tony seemed to know when to push and when to be patient. “I haven’t looked. I can’t look.”

“I figured,” said Tony.

Bucky forced himself to look Tony in the eye. “I love you.”

“I hoped.” Tony lifted their hands and kissed Bucky’s knuckles.

“I want to,” said Bucky. “Look.”

“That’s enough for me. We have time,” said Tony.

Something inside of Bucky just... collapsed. He kicked off his shoes and climbed into the bed, mindful of Tony’s IV.

“Still here, honey,” said Tony. He carded a hand through Bucky’s hair. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Shut _up_ ,” said Bucky.

Tony _hm_ ed. “JARVIS approves, you know.”

Bucky squirmed, flushing. “I didn’t _know_.”

Tony kissed his cheek. “You are the bravest, most adorable man.”

“I think they burned you,” Bucky blurted.

It was not at all the kind of sweet reply Tony deserved, but Tony also deserved the truth.

“What?”

“Bucky—I mean, when I was younger, when I enlisted—it was on my right shoulder, I’m pretty sure. And they—burned it. I don’t know why it didn’t heal right.” Bucky’s heart rate tripled. Why couldn’t he understand all of what had been done? This was important.

“It’s okay,” said Tony. “I mean, it’s _not_ —that’s—so awful I want to throw up, not gonna lie, but it’s not your fault.”

Bucky pressed on. “My thigh. You just... _moved_. They cut you out.”

Tony turned on his uninjured side, pressing his wet face into Bucky’s chest. Bucky looped an arm, as delicately as he could, around Tony’s waist.

“My foot,” Bucky said. “There was—definitely my foot. After that, they just... they trained me not to look.”

It was hard to even say the words. To speak the possibility. No, the truth of it.

Bucky shoved his own nausea deep down.

 _Not now_ , he told his body. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” said Tony.

“Don’t,” said Bucky, and he was laughing now. “You’re a fucking stubborn bastard, you know that, sweetheart? Hydra tried to _burn_ you out of me and you just said—no fucking way. God, I _love_ you.”

“Tell me again when I’m out of this hellhole,” said Tony, his words slower now. His eyes fluttered closed.

“I love you,” said Bucky. A promise. A revolution. “Go to sleep, Tony.”

Tony’s hand settled against his hip.

They’d look, together.

Just not today. 


End file.
